


And Counting

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9273095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: It's not a surprise when Mikael goes to his knees in the dressing room.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The lack of porn about these two is disappointing, so I decided to take matters into my grubby little hands.

It's not a surprise when Mikael goes to his knees in the dressing room. 

Some guys like to take after good games, others like to give. Mikael likes to give. He's smiling, effervescent and so sure of himself for once as he stares around the room. The boys hoot and holler, happy while they wait to see who he picks, and Mikko doesn't move. Mikael chose him, once, as a rookie; Mikko tried to make a joke and pointed him to someone else. 

Mikael’s not his rookie anymore.

His eyes, blue and too shrewd for comfort, meet Mikko’s. The question is obvious. 

Mikko nods, because what else can he do? Mikael got the points, took the shots, made the plays, proved his worth, and it’s not as if Mikko hasn’t...thought about this. Thought about it a lot, if he’s honest with himself.

Mikael knee-walks over to him, his ridiculous hair flopping across his forehead, and asks, in Finnish,

“Are you going to bitch if I say I want to blow you?”

Mikko licks his dry lips. “Not if that’s what you want to do.”

Mikael just rolls his eyes, bratty as ever. “Oh my god. It’s not like you’re not going to like it too. Just for that I’m swallowing.” He switches back to English and says, “All right, boys, I choose...The Captain!”

The team cheers and Mikko stifles an eye roll at the dramatics. It doesn't take him long to get hard, though. It never does, after good games; his body's conditioned to associate winning with pleasure.

"Stop stalling- Hah, Staaling-"

"Mikke."

"Okay, okay." He switches back to English and says, "Get your dick out."

Dimly Mikko hears the boys getting comfortable, shedding the last of the game’s weight. It’s time to relax now, savor their good work, and get ready to move on. Yeo always discouraged this, especially at the end, when yelling passed for communication and bad days far outnumbered the good. Boudreau gives his talk and then leaves them to it. It's better this way. 

Mikko shrugs his shorts down to the top of his thighs and pulls his cock free, giving it a loose lazy stroke. He's suddenly struck with the urge to tease, make Mikael wait for it, but that's not how this works. Mikael earned it, and out of everyone he could have - Nino, Haulsy, Kuemps - he chose him. Mikko grips himself harder.

"C'mere."

Licking his lips, Mikael smiles in a flash of white teeth and pink tongue before swallowing Mikko down. No tease, no buildup, nothing, just wetness and warmth, pleasure and sloppy enthusiasm. Mikko’s eyes fall closed, and he stays like that, mouth open, breathing in quiet satisfied sighs. This is good. This is team. 

Mikko doesn't mean to reach out, or to stroke Mikael's hair. It's too long; God knows the last time he had a trim, but it's soft, damp at the ends, easy to bury his fingers in, pull just a little. Mikael makes a soft sound and Mikko opens his eyes, afraid he’s crossed a line, but Mikael just presses back into Mikko’s hand, a cat seeking attention. 

Mikko can do that. He can make a gente fist, pull just enough to guide Mikeal into the rhythm he wants, nice and messy, lots of tongue, in deep, out slowly, in deep, out slowly, making sure Mikael feels every bit of Mikko’s weight in his mouth. He doesn’t miss Mikeal’s hand slipping into his shorts, or the frantic motions under the fabric.

It builds in him, a gentle roll of pleasure as predictable and welcome as the tides to the shore. Mikko grits out a warning, but true to his word Mikael swallows it all. He pulls off with a happy little sigh, and Mikko can't help but reach out, run his thumb across that red, red bottom lip, and say,

"Good boy."

Haulsy cackles, which is by turns mortifying and a relief. At least he said it in Finnish. Mikael just preens, but there's a question in his eyes Mikko isn't prepared to answer yet. 

The team applauds, the moment breaks, and Mikael pulls a sticky hand out of his shorts, wiping it on his leg. Mikko groans. That’s disgusting.

“Get cleaned up before Coach sees you,” he says, and Mikael rolls his eyes.

“You’ll be here when I get back, right?”

“Yes, damnit.”

“Yes, damnit,” Mikael parrots, and beams at him. 


End file.
